


Grand Pas de Un

by foppishaplomb



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Stalking, Mild Blood, Non-Consensual Bondage, Obsessive Behavior, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 10:59:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11713011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foppishaplomb/pseuds/foppishaplomb
Summary: The same old dance has a different ending.





	Grand Pas de Un

**Author's Note:**

> wrote some gross on my phone at 4am. the title is a corruption of a ballet term

It was the same dance as always. Another mission, the same foolish girl. This time Widowmaker was the first to miss a step--a near-impossibility that only Tracer could seem to produce--and the target got away. Widowmaker’s grip on her rifle grew just a bit tighter. Her teeth clenched ever so slightly. Widowmaker did not get her kill. Tracer laughed in relief, and Widowmaker’s finger twitched on the trigger. She did not pull it.

It was easy enough to bring the dance into close-quarters. It was the closing number to this familiar old show: a fight on the rooftops, one on top of the other, and every brush of Tracer’s warm skin made Widowmaker’s slowed heart beat faster. She accounted it to the proximity. No one touched Widowmaker anymore. As a sniper, only Tracer ever managed to get this close. Widowmaker shuddered when the butt of Tracer’s palm jammed into her face. She punched Tracer and felt transcendence.

Still, no matter how skilled Tracer was with her little blinking games, Widowmaker was the bigger of the two, and so often who led the dance came down to that. She pinned the girl to the ground with the weight of her rifle across her throat. The Widow's Kiss was long and heavy, giving Widowmaker easy leverage to look down at her prey before it could wriggle away.

What familiar prey it was. Widowmaker knew Tracer's weaknesses; she had her file memorized like the crosshairs of her scope and had done much of the reconnaissance herself. She couldn't blink when pinned down. The powers of time itself lost with something so simple as physical contact. It was written in the shock of Tracer’s wide eyes behind the goggles.

Widowmaker wanted to keep her there. She had lost her kill. The need for blood still coursed through her veins. She took the risk of lifting one hand to shoot out her grappling hook. Tracer leapt at the opportunity, of course, and there was another brief scuffle before Widowmaker had Tracer pinned again and her arms tangled up in the grappling hook wire. Widowmaker elected to hold her down by her throat with her own hand this time. She allowed herself a smile. “I win, _chérie_.”

Tracer’s surprised look quickly morphed into a cocky smile. “Ha! Don't think so, luv. Lookin’ a little too roughed up and the chairman a little too alive to say that.”

A frown tugged at the edges of Widowmaker’s lips. Tracer was right. They were both bloodied, and the target had gotten away for the night. Even so, she had Tracer pinned down beneath her, her face pale and bruised in the moonlight. Widowmaker’s other hand went to trace along her jaw, where blood trickled down from a cut Widowmaker had inflicted. She watched Tracer flinch. When Tracer tried to speak, Widowmaker pressed down on her throat until Tracer gasped in pain instead.

“It's like music,” said Widowmaker, chuckling and loosening her hold enough that Tracer could breathe. The wire and Widowmaker’s body weight kept Tracer where she was, so she could afford to be lenient.

Tracer glared at her. “Would you mind being a little more gentle?”

“Yes, I would,” said Widowmaker. “Greatly.” She struck her, just to hear that gasp of pain again. It was the most beautiful music, better than any ballet Amélie would have once danced to. Widowmaker gazed down at Tracer’s little face, gripping her by the chin to keep her still.

Such a cute thing, especially when she was hurt. Widowmaker regarded her with something approaching fondness. Big, brown eyes, that spiky brown hair, upturned nose a little red with the cold night air. A face you could believe in: no wonder Tracer was the veritable mascot of Overwatch. A sweet, doe-eyed ingenue, as pretty as she was foolish. Widowmaker’s chest felt warm, and for once it wasn't blood seeping into her clothes.

And Tracer was still speaking while she struggled. Life had never taught her to shut up. The words didn't matter, even if Widowmaker wrote to memory every single one. All that mattered was that it was _Tracer_ saying them, Tracer's caught up in her web, Tracer saying she wouldn't get away after Tracer ruined yet another kill. It was Tracer. It had always been about Tracer. Widowmaker’s eyes lingered on Tracer’s lips. They were pink and just a little chapped. The opportunity was there, within reach. Widowmaker made a decision. A part of her had always known it was always leading up to this.

Widowmaker leaned down to kiss Tracer. Their lips met, and Tracer froze. Her head pulled away, back into the roof, and instead of Tracer’s mouth opening to let her in Widowmaker felt--would have felt--a sharp stab of ice pierce her dead heart. Widowmaker pulled away.

“Oh,” Tracer said, and the look of pity in her puppy dog eyes! Widowmaker wanted to gouge them out. “I'm sorry.” Her voice was so gentle. So apologetic. The way a former Overwatch operative should never have spoken to their _enemy._ “I have a girlfriend.”

Widowmaker knew about that. She had known about that. She herself had looked in on Tracer’s apartment many times, seen Tracer in Emily’s arms, her scope honing in on the redhead with her finger on the trigger and a voice in Widowmaker’s head she had never known before reminding her _it would be so easy._ She had never pulled the trigger. She was trained not to leave unnecessary casualties. Her fists clenched. She saw a gorey headshot, red hair and a bloody teal scarf. _It would be so easy._ Widowmaker had killed her own lover. Why did Tracer deserve to have one instead? She wanted to beat the girl unconscious. Instead she smiled again, the warmth of Tracer’s lips still lingering on her own, and this time there was no trace of fondness to Widowmaker’s cold smirk.

“I know that, stupid girl,” she sneered, and Widowmaker felt cold, cold, cold. “I am not asking for a relationship. I am not asking for anything. I am _taking."_

“W-What?” said Tracer, and Widowmaker was kissing her again, this time fiercer, this time with teeth and tongue that forced Tracer’s mouth open into the kiss. Tracer’s quickened breaths puffed into Widowmaker’s mouth. She _took,_ her hands grasping Tracer's face and neat black nails digging into her cheeks, and when she finally pulled away Tracer was left gasping with the beginnings of tears wetting her eyes. Widowmaker sneered. Talon’s greatest creation did not know pity.

“You don't have to do this,” Tracer said, the tremble in her voice better than the greatest violinist’s strings. _Hurt,_ beat Widowmaker’s heart. _Hurt and cry, stupid girl._ A spider knew only venom. “I read your file. You didn't used to be this way. You used to be a dancer.”

That was right. Tracer had only been sixteen when Amélie had been rebuilt into the Widowmaker, still two years away from that fateful accident aboard the _Slipstream_. She had still been Lena, and only Lena. Neither of them had been reborn yet.

Tracer pushed on, pleading desperately with her eyes. “Your name was Amélie.”

Widowmaker felt nothing. Every time Lena had called out for Emily, Amélie had been all she'd heard. “ _Ta gueule!_ You think I've forgotten my own name, little idiot? _I_ know all that. It doesn't matter now.”

“I thought Talon…”

“You thought Talon changed me so much I wouldn't know my left from right? Talon did change me, but I would do no good to them if I hadn't even remembered who Gérard was.”

“There's still good in you somewhere,” Tracer insisted.

Widowmaker laughed. “‘Good’ and ‘bad’ are words for children. What if I told you Amélie was all gone, and I am all that was left?”

“Then I'd say--I'd say Widowmaker can change just as much as Amélie did. Y-You could be a dancer again.” Tracer took in Widowmaker’s impassive face. “No? Then… then join Overwatch with me and Winston. You could be a hero instead.”

Tracer’s tone and her face were impossible to turn away from. She was so hopeful, so sincere, it left even Widowmaker enraptured. What would it take for the world to take that away from her? How could one girl be so innocent and naive? “Don't you know?” Tracer’s voice broke. “The world could always use more heroes.”

The pause in the air was pregnant, but Widowmaker already knew the truth. Perhaps Tracer had taken up all the goodness in the world, and there was none left for Widowmaker. She wasn't a hero. She was a weapon now. Weapons were only made to hurt.

“I am too old for dancing now, _chérie,_ ” Widowmaker’s hand went to the waistband of Tracer’s leggings, “and too old for fairy tales.”

Amélie’s first time with Gérard had been candles and flower petals, soft kisses and silken sheets. Widowmaker slipped her hand under the fabric on a dirty rooftop in the dark, lit by the moon and the glow of Tracer’s chronal accelerator. It accentuated the tears.

“Don't do this,” Tracer insisted, as Widowmaker’s hand slid down to caress the inside of her thigh. Widowmaker hadn't touched a woman there in a very long time. It brought back dim memories of a life before Gérard. She kissed Tracer’s neck, soaking in her every touch, her every twitch and squeak and shudder. “Please. Just stop and let me go.”

“I can't do that, _chérie,"_ Widowmaker murmured, nipping at Tracer’s earlobe. “We have gone too far.” She slipped a finger inside of Tracer, relishing her gasp like the finest of champagne.

Widowmaker wished she had all the time in the world, but her transport would be arriving soon, and she did not want to be caught in a compromising position. When she did something about Tracer, it would be on Widowmaker’s terms. How she wished she could simply pick Tracer up and take her away. If only it could be so easy.

For now she had to settle for fingering the crying, writhing girl to completion as much as time would allow. Widowmaker wished she had more time for herself. She ground herself against Tracer’s helpless little body, greedily drinking in the delicious _warmth_ against her groin. She bit her lip. Somehow she could not be embarrassed by her graceful self rutting against Tracer like an animal.

And,  _mon dieu,_ did Tracer look beautiful. The flush in her cheeks. The sweat sticking her bangs to her forehead. The tears blurring her goggles. Her lithe body squirming beneath Widowmaker’s, arms stretched above her head to puff out her chest. She was a picture out of Widowmaker’s most unacceptable fantasies. And when Widowmaker touched her just right, how her protests became such _noises._ Widowmaker had come before, but it was only now that she understood why it was called _the little death._ She had failed to take out her target, but Tracer made her feel so _alive._

Alas, it couldn’t last forever. How she wished she could stay and hold her just a moment longer. Widowmaker stood up and smoothed back the hair that had gotten free of her ponytail. She untangled her grappling hook. Tracer sat up, but didn't move, staring dully.

“H-how could you…?”

Tracer’s warmth was already fading from Widowmaker’s body. She bent down to kiss her forehead. She had to leave; let Emily hold her and wipe away her tears. The thought made bile rise in the back of Widowmaker’s throat. “ _Adieu, chérie._ ” Tracer looked so broken. The sight could bring a smile to even the most jealous spider's face. She'd hurt her. She'd marked her. Now Tracer was as tangled in the web as Widowmaker was. “ _Merci_.”

Widowmaker had been wrong; she wasn't too old for dancing. With the right partner, she could keep this up for as long as the dance would go on.


End file.
